


slow down, it's a science

by callmearcturus



Series: to black mambo (fae AU) [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Consensual Mind Control, Dirk's continued struggle with sex addiction, Five Things format fic, Jake's continued struggle with amorality, M/M, Negotiated Loss of Control, but very very overt mind control, series-typical amounts of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-05 10:38:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10305041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/pseuds/callmearcturus
Summary: Dirk Strider went out into the world with two goals: find something, and lose himself in the process.And boy fuckin' howdy, did he ever. When you're dealing with the fae, it's not about the spirit, but the letter.(Fae Jake/sex addict Dirk, and the mornings after. Five Things format fic.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back.
> 
> If you haven't read the first fic in this series, this ain't gonna make a lick of sense.

one.

 

Here’s the downside of recovering from magical branding in the middle of winter:

It’s fucking boring.

The problem is simple; you can’t wear clothes yet. It takes a week before you can stand to put anything against your red-pink skin, and then all you can manage is the softest linen shirt Jake has in his closet. The ornate lines of the brand protest and sting at the light pressure, but it’s bearable.

Sometimes it even feels kind of satisfying, but you don’t tell Jake that, just curl your hand around the back of your neck and press down into the aching.

But the point is, it’s a long period in which you’re consigned to some level of nudity in the middle of winter. You’re lucky that the house is so warm that it’s not uncomfortable to stand around in jeans and your skin, but it’s tedious regardless.

“Don’t you have magic,” you ask Jake, “to make this heal faster?”

Jake gives you a full lipped pout, and you’re damn sure he knows what a good look that is for him. It makes you subside, frowning down at your omelette.

The next day, Jake helps you slide into the shirt, his hands careful, his lips pressing against the lines along the back of your neck. It’s just enough to sting, and you know he’s got your number. Your weird goddamn masochistic number.

“Button up, buttercup,” Jake says, stepping away before you can catch him. “We’re going out.”

“Out,” you repeat. “Are we… somewhere else? Not Dublin? Somewhere above forty degrees?”

“I enjoy the heat, but that would be _sweltering_!”

“Fahrenheit.”

“Oh.” He pauses, glancing back at you. “And no, no. I’m trying to be frugal with my arcane expenditures ‘til you’re all tuned up and recuperated. When I said out, I meant through the other door.”

That changes the landscape quite a bit.

The one and only time you ventured out the kitchen door, you’d found another fucking world sitting on the other side. Wide open haunting space with a lush garden and a cemetery of tombstone trees all around, a thick wood with no undergrowth. Jake just calls it Summer, and you can hear the conspicuous capitalization in his voice as he says it. Faerie lands.

“If you’re going to stay with me,” Jake says, sounding almost resigned, “then you should be comfortable with it.”

“What, lest I fall through the goddamn looking glass?”

He hums and at the door, nudges the curtain over the window aside to check outside. “The looking glass was a dream. As was Oz and Neverland. This is something a bit more ravenous, I’m afraid.”

“You know, I was feeling nervous about headin’ out into the Neverwhere, but that right there just turned me around.”

“Oh, stuff a sock in it, Strider, c’mon.”

You follow him through the kitchen door to the outside. It’s precisely like you remember. Even the light seems the same, that faint glow of the air like a candlelight through smoky glass. Glowing motes drift lazily around you, tiny but so prevalent you can’t avoid breathing them in, exhaling them in a swirl that disturbs their kin.

While you linger in the doorway, Jake stomps across the overgrown garden to the fence, putting his hand on the white picket to look out into the unnatural woods beyond.

“Anything?” you ask.

“Oh, plenty of things,” he answers vaguely. “Nothing with enough gristle to dare come close, though, don’t you worry.”

You cautiously step down to the stone path. The blackberry bushes are so full, they’re leaning solidly in your way. “Cool. So, what’s the deal with this?”

Jake’s attention is already diverted. He breaks off the path, taking a huge swung-hip step over the roses-- “Ow, ow,”-- to gingerly pick his way to the far corner. There, he kneels down to run a hand over the candy orange shell of a pumpkin, thoroughly distracted.

In that case, you decide to take a look around. The blackberries look incredible and you kind of want to try some, but know it might be a bad idea. Or maybe not? They belong to Jake, and so do you, ergo... You're not sure how all these rules work yet.

Tucking your hands in your pockets like a child in an expensive store, you amble down the path to the gate. It’s just tall enough to lean across. You peer out, squinting at the mirage-like surroundings, wondering what the hell could be out there. 

There’s larger drifting lights. Wisps of cool yellow light. You reach out for one, wanting to see if its tangible. It floats a bit out of reach, and you go for the gate latch.

The gate is just barely unseated when Jake says, “No, absolutely _not_ , Dirk Strider, stay _put_.”

You freeze all at once. Or, it’s not accurate to say _you_ do anything. You are frozen, acted upon, and you are stopped.

Jake returns to your side and puts a hand on your elbow, drawing you back. You go, and the gate slides back into place.

“Dude,” you breathe.

His hand pats your hip briskly, and you feel the reins of your body placed back into your grasp. You shudder all over, one full body shake, and look at him.

“No wandering off. Believe me, Dirk, there is nothing in Summer that is meant for you, and anything that’s putting on airs to suggest otherwise is a lousy trap.”

You arch your eyebrows. “You’re from Summer.”

Jake’s lips press together. “I can’t speak to lie, old boy. Don’t be difficult.”

Makes sense. You look back out at woods. Jake’s hold on your arm and hip tightens, drawing you back to lean against him.

His lips touch the shell of your ear as he leans up to whisper to you: “Dirk Strider, you will never cross that gate without me. You’ll stay close, where I can keep you safe. You will never invite anything in or open the gate for a stranger.”

The branding tingles, building heat with every syllable from Jake’s mouth, and you shut your eyes against the slowly kindling fire. It feels like something being burned into the scars, the commands settling into the hooks and curled knotwork tied around you. You swallow and nod.

“You should really take better care of the fucking garden though,” you say.

The tension pops as Jake snorts, dropping back on his heels. “Never had cause to, but you’re likely right.” His hand slips from your elbow to your wrist, fingers closing and tugging. “I’ve got some mini watermelons and springs of mint and an idea you might like involving this bottle of rum I’ve kept in the fridge."

The rest of your day is spent daydrinking, shirtless with healing balm spread over your brand. For the first time since you arrived in Jake's little narrow house, the curtains in the kitchen are pulled open, letting Summer outside infuse the day with yellow light.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonus cw for breathplay

two.

 

“We shouldn’t,” Jake tells you the first time you try to get him to fuck you after his semi-accidental mostly-intentional magic branding. Your hands are in his hair and you’re trying valiantly to get your tongue in his mouth. The clench of his hands on your hips is gratifying, but he still leans back, looking dazed but reluctant. “Until you’re mended.”

Which is fine for a while. You’re determined to tough it out, well aware that Jake thinks you’re an addict. And maybe you are, but you’re functional about it. And you know from so much media that _functional addiction_ is code for _acceptable and cool addiction._

Eventually, the anxious skincrawling touch-starved feeling starts to grate. You _could_ withstand it, no problem, but you don’t understand why you should bother.

You wind up blowing Jake, kneeling in front of the sofa as he tries to watch a movie, and the culmination of his hands gripping your hair, the way he shakes apart for you, and the lingering taste in the back of your mouth and around your teeth, it helps you chill the hell out for a while.

The next time you get pushy with Jake, he gets pushy right back, backing you up against a spare bit of wall and jerking you off viciously. It feels great and scratches that itch, but after, you back fucking _stings_ , and every time you wince in pain, Jake looks like you’ve kicked him in the ribs, guilt plain on his face.

It doesn’t stop your hourglass from running out again, though, but it makes Jake more careful with you the next time you start making eyes at him. You leave your hair down the way he likes and drape yourself over him during breakfast and as he picks blackberries from the garden. When he feeds you a few, your teeth nip his fingers.

He watches you with an exasperated expression, and rubs the lingering juice from the corner of your mouth, licking it from his thumb, and you know you’re got him.

With weighty confidence, you head upstairs. As you unbutton your pants and push them down, you hear the stairs creak. It’s all you need to climb gingerly onto the bed, one hand on the headboard to steady you on your knees.

The door is soundless; it doesn’t matter since you can feel Jake behind you. You roll your shoulders a little and bow your head, putting on a bit of subservient boytoy drag and hoping Jake’ll play ball.

He sighs. “You are just incorrigible.”

“Knew that when you signed your name on my fucking spine.” You don’t even look at him, just rest your head against your arm, letting your back bend into a curve. “You said you were going to take care of me, English, so fucking get to it.”

Since you’re not keeping track of where Jake is, the sharp smack against your ass completely startles you. You jerk, leaning up on your arm with a muffled curse.

“If you use my Name, I will use yours,” Jake says, voice quiet and rock steady. You bite you lip, hiding your face. “Oh, Dirk. You are a singular beautiful thing.”

Your face is burning, but you don’t have to dwell on how fucked up you are or how Jake _knows_ how fucked up you are. He settles in behind you and holds your hips as his mouth presses to the filigreed knot at the top of your spine, pinpoints of contact that sink into your body and flood your veins with a familiar molasses heat. It’s an injection without a needle and now that you _understand_ (most of) it, know (sort of) where it comes from, you can feel every inch of it creeping into your body, the way it circulates like hot toxin with your blood, and are unswervingly aware of how it feels as though it’s journey is sped along as your heartrate ticks up. It’s a damning self-sustaining loop, and your pulse races as it seeps out across your chest and down to your fingertips and finally up your fucking carotids to drench your mind.

You come unpinned and slump against the headboard, moaning thinly.

Jake bring a hand up, palm against your ribs and sliding up your back and into your hair. Nothing hurts at all, but for the way his fingers grip your hair and direct you. When your brain catches up with the intent, you follow his command easily and lift your head back up, sightlessly staring ahead at the wall.

“What a find you are. A bit of treasure that walked right through my door.” He releases you, and you sigh, holding still. It doesn’t occur to you to move, your pushiness wiped clear like chalk dust, and in a moment, Jake starts to finger you open with slick fingers.

It’s been a few weeks since you’ve done this, but there isn’t an ounce of tension in you as he opens you up. You put your hand over his on your hip, eyes sliding shut, and Jake lets out an awed, breathless sound, kissing your cheek.

Your mouth falls open as his dick stutters into you. His hand squeezes your hip harder, the taut feeling of him trying to move slow strumming like a chord. You brace yourself on the headboard again and push back, his dick spreading you further as you move against him.

Jake sighs something that could be your name if it wasn’t muffled against your skin. His hesitation falls off him, and he moves with purpose. Purposefully fucking you steady and long and out of your fool mind.

You’ve got goosebumps everywhere he isn’t touching you and molten heat in your blood and the points of contact, hands and lips and his dick working deep into you. You have barely enough wherewithal to shift your legs further apart, letting him get that much deeper.

“Dirk,” he groans, breath stirring your hair. “You make it so-- so very hard to tell you no.” The hard drag of his teeth against your shoulder, right across the lines there, makes you jerk and tense all over and all around him. He fucks into the clench, forehead dropping to press against the sting. “Just like that, do that _again_.”

You do, shuddering and pushing back against Jake, wound up so tight it hovers on that precipice of bad pain without tipping over. He’s impossible, the way he does this. You feel pressed to your limits, about to fall somewhere deep and dark you won’t return from, but held fast and safe, right at that edge.

You let go of the headboard to reach back and hold onto him, gravity shifting back until you’re braced on him instead. His arms immediately circle you and hug you tight, his body warm and welcoming. His dick shifts back, almost out of you, before he thrusts in again, up into you, making your own dick bob heavily with the motion. The sound is slick and obscene, and someone with more shame than you would be embarrassed by the light slap of your shaft hitting your lower belly.

The knotwork across your shoulders hurts, but it’s an academic pain. You know it hurts. The sensation doesn’t fit in with the honey drench of arousal and heat, though, and it doesn’t matter.

Hearing Jake’s desperate panting is always gratifying, but feeling the bellows of his lungs against your is even better, feeling him squeeze you tighter, possessive and greedy as he fucks you harder. It’s so good and intense, and you dig your nails into his arms, right there--

His mouth presses to your ear right as you go tight, right on the edge. “ _Stop, right there.”_

You stop, a fucking pause button stabbed before you can come, all the tension and suspense just held in your body. You’re there, you’re ready for it, and it just halts in place and _keeps_ you there, the muscles in your abdomen pulled, your toes curled, your mouth parted around a groan that’s silenced in your throat.

You just stop.

Jake doesn’t, of course. As soon as you stop, he somehow grips you even closer, fucks you faster, and it just compounds everything. The simmer goes boil, and you-- you can’t even breathe. You’re overwhelmed and helpless and dizzy from it all crashing into you, and you can’t even take a breath.

One hand splays over your gut, pressing into your frozen muscles, and Jake _whines_ , pitched high and desperate as he fucking pulls out of you, the bastard, and pushes your down.

He comes against your lower back, the feeling so fucking filthy and intense you want to cry.

But mostly, you’re shivering, face hot and lips parted around your stolen breath.

Jake holds you with wide, sure hands, and finally says, “ _Breathe_.”

You gasp, and come with the suddenness of a piano wire snapping. Even with Jake holding you, you fall, hands fisting in the pillows as you let out a choked screams as every built up sensation breaks the dam all at once.

His hands close around your shoulders, holding you up so you don’t smother yourself bonelessly into the pillows, so you can gulp down huge breaths of air, your lungs gratefully filling.

It’s too much, hitting all at once, and you pull against his grip to bury your face into one of the pillow, tears in your eyes.

Something in the back of your mind is absolutely fucking thrilled.

 

* * *

 

Later, because there is always a later, no matter how absurd that is:

You lay across Jake’s chest, cleaned up and wrung out, eyes lidded but just open enough to watch your free hand. Your fingers trace the dark lines of his tattoos, following the wide curve of a sun capping his shoulder.

In return, his fingers drag against your back. You flinch. “Ow, don’t.”

He immediately stops, inhaling sharply. “Sorry, clementine. You must be terribly sore.”

“Yeah, down to my fucking bone marrow.” You rub your face against his chest, sighing. The molasses sex magic is out of you now, and your back feels like hell. “So. Hey.”

Jake hums vaguely, curling his arm around your waist instead, safely out of range of all the bullfuckery along your back.

“You can just do that, then, right?” you ask quickly, lest the words get caught up in your mouth and never make it past the detention of your teeth. Part of you doesn’t want to talk about this shit, because it’s what you signed up for and it’s… way more than you were expecting and it’s also perfect in the way a blade is.

You press your palm flat against his skin. You can feel his heart, slow and steady. You’re reassured that he has one, honestly.

It’d be like him to play dumb, but he just turns his head to kiss your hair. “Mmhm.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

It’s been a while since you said it out loud, so you add, “I’m sort of hilariously fucked up, huh.”

Jake nuzzles your hair. “I don’t find it to be that much of a ripsnorter, if’m honest.” You shut your eyes tightly, and you must tense up because Jake continues, “Easy there, Dirk. It’s alright.”

“Is it really?” you ask bitterly.

He sighs. “You’ve got a lot of sharp edges pressing in on that soft heart of yours. I, hm. I think it’ll be alright. I’ll always take care of you.”

That doesn’t seem very fair. You lick your lips, nervous.

“Dirk,” Jake murmurs. “Leave it for now. If there is one thing we have, it’s time.” He shifts, just resettling into the bed. “And besides, in the moment, it’s quite a lot of fun.”

You let out a sharp laugh. “What a fucking hardship for you. A goddamn tragedy.”

Jake hums at you again, and doesn’t say anything more, doesn't indulge your little joke. Eventually, he starts to softly snore.

You leave it for now, and shut your eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dirk vs sex addiction, round 9075.
> 
> Jake, my dude, you're gonna have to come up with a better tactic eventually. Or, you don't *have* to but. You should.


	3. Chapter 3

three.

  


Today, you’re sitting on the patio listening to the waves roll in and out.

Today, the house has a patio. And a beachfront view. You’re not entirely certain where Jake has moved his narrow brownstone to, and when you asked him, he looked uncertain himself. “I’ll go find out!” he’d chirped, cheeks dark and eyes bright. “We need more sugar and milk. I’ll take a trip into town.”

“I can go with,” you’d said.

“No, no. I’ll be fine. Besides, don’t you have a phonecall to make?”

You do. So, Jake’s left you on the patio, your feet bare against the worn wooden boards, your back gingerly resting against a chair generously padded with every throw pillow from the sofa. You’re recovering. Now you can even _wear shirts_ , though you still agitate the tether sometimes when you reach too far or stretch too long.

The tether is the name you’ve settled on for the now-pink and healing brand. It deserves a proper name, and tether seemed apt.

For weeks, the ache of it had been a nigh-constant reality of your day to day life. Now, as it fades, everything else floods in to fill the void.

You have to go see Jane and Roxy soon. You no longer have an excuse to put it off. In fact, Jake deciding one morning to just up and disapparate you out of Dublin seems like his unsubtle way to nudge you along, a reminder that he can take you back to America at any time.

The stasis of the house has broken. You’d figured it’d last forever. You’ve been reading up on faerie folklore and the genre convention is pretty fucking clear on the subject, how you entered faerie lands and weren’t supposed to return for a whole generation.

But Van Winkle you ain't, and Jake has yet to follow the tenets of conventional fae-dom. Why would he start now?

You have your phone in hand. It’s still stuck in Dublin’s timezone. There’s no way to check what time it is in New York or Washington state.

It's shitty excuse, even to your well-honed denial. You are a coward, and press the corner of your phone against your forehead hard enough to hurt, and shut your eyes.

Some time later, you hear the patio steps creek, and behind you, the door opens. And shuts.

You squeeze your eyes shut tighter. The fuck are you doing. You’d rather try to dent your skull with your phone than use it to call the only important people in your life.

Jake returns, his groceries apparently stowed. His hand closes around your wrist, and he pulls it closer, and takes the phone from your grip.

“Sweetheart, why are you so determined to be in pain?”

All you can offer him is a shrug. You’re a mess. What else is new?

“Aren’t you tired, Dirk?”

God, you are. You’re exhausted. The effort to try to open your eyes again isn’t worth it. You lean against Jake’s arm, silent and miserable and a misery.

He helps you inside, letting you keep your eyes shut. You know this room, and you’ve walked this floor so many times, you don’t need anything but the slight pull of his hand to get you to the sofa.

After a bit of maneuvering, almost all orchestrated by Jake, you are sprawled out across his lap, your legs bent against the back cushions, feet tucked against the sofa arm. There’s barely enough room for your long limbs, but you manage it. Your cheek presses against the worn denim of the black jean shorts Jake’s wearing, and this close he smells like fabric softener and pine. It’s so mundane and comforting. You’re drifting.

The idea that anything is amiss doesn’t strike you until you are on the verge of sleep. Jake’s hand is warm through your hair, each stroke of his fingers lulling you further.

It’s difficult to open your eyes, but you manage. The second you do, Jake stills, looking down at you.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Stop,” you mumble. As you lift your hand to rub your face, it feels like lead. “You’re puttin’ me to sleep, knock it off.”

Jake frowns. “I… Hm. You were in a frightful downspiral, I just wanted to take you out of it.”

“Why,” you ask, sitting up like carrying breezeblocks. “For my own good or because I was being difficult?”

With _that_ , the lull releases you and you’re awake again. Jake crosses his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing on you.

It brings a smirk to your face. “Yeah, thought so.” Shifting, you sit properly on the cushion next to him and drag your hands up and down over your face. “Can I have my phone back?”

Without a word, he takes it from his jacket pocket and hands it out to you across his palm. You take it, and with your free hand take his, your thumb rubbing against the soft skin against the inside of his wrist.

“Thanks,” you say.

It all comes out of him in a rush: “You are sometimes an absolutely vexing mystery to solve, Dirk. I had thought that with the-- the tether, you called it? That it’d help me sort through the quagmire of your thoughts and desires. But even now, you’ve still got me all sixes and nines, and maybe the tether makes it all the more perplexing!”

“Yeah.” You lower your gaze to your linked hands. His skin is very brown, makes you look bone white in comparison. Intertwining your fingers offers a strange braid of colors.

His head sinks to your shoulder. You lean your cheek against his thick, dark hair.

“It’s a prickly bushel of pears. I-- I admit I do push advantage. Some days I’m not great at handling you, and a good nap always helps, I find. But other days, I do my very best and you just bristle at me.” He nuzzles his cheek against your shoulder, and you sigh at the slight sting. “What would you have me do, Dirk?”

The very concept, that you have more answers about this than he does, is hysterical. You, the guy who threw himself into the most rigorous master-slave arrangement the scene’s ever fucking imagined, the guy who gets the fucking vapors when he has to call his best friends to say hi.

“Are you… laughing?” He can feel it in your chest, apparently.

“Not at you, babe. At us.”

“Oh,” he says, immediately placated. “I think that’s alright then. It’s… not terribly helpful.”

“Sorry, but I left my _Care And Feeding Of Humans_ guide in Dublin. I don’t got anything for you, except… I think you’re doing pretty okay, all things considered.”

He tilts his head enough to look up at your eyes. “And, Mr. Strider, would you claim to be a fair barometer of such things?”

You grin. “Better than you.”

“By the evergreen, you can be vicious with your honesty.”

You lean down and kiss his brow, right between the eyes. “You broke it, you bought it.” Sinking back against the sofa, you thumb open your phone and look at your contact list.

As you and Jake both stare at the frozen, smiling portraits of Roxy and Jane, you swallow.

“I’ll… text them,” you concede, flipping away from the app and to your pesterchum.

Jake winds his arms around you, and holds on as you open a group log and type: _Hey. Long time no see._


End file.
